Solace
by Shizuku Tsukishima749
Summary: -Oliver Twist.- The Artful One, the Artful Dodger, better known to some as Jack Dawkins, cared about Oliver Twist deeply. Denying that in any form would be the lowest of lows. Oneshot. Oliver/Dodger friendship.


_A/N: _Though I have never read Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens (I would much enjoy doing so), I saw the 1997 made-for-TV movie (the one that has Elijah Wood playing 'Dodger') in my Honors World History class, and I was _hooked_ on the relationship between Oliver and Dodger. I filled my paper with so many ideas... lol.

This is my first time writing for Oliver Twist, so please bear with me. Also, because this is based on the characters from the movie, some might call them (in this) OOC. For that, I apologize. This is simply my interpretation of their relationship. (In my eyes, Dodger was about seventeen to eighteen in this movie's portrayal, while it was pointed out that Oliver was twelve. Thus, their ages here.)

For those wondering or who may get confused, this takes place just after Oliver is stolen back from the Brownlows'. In the movie's scene (when I saw it in class), there was a boy playing a flute in a back room with another boy seated beside him at Fagin's place, and since it wasn't a very close look and one of them looked like Dodger, I figured, _what if it was Oliver and Dodger_? Then, this came to life, though it expanded to be more than I imagined.

_**Thus:** this is meant to be a friendship fic, and though it features a very close/intimate relationship__ (word of warning to those who may be uncomfortable with such things between two boys), it is not meant as slash. However, for those who like it, you may see it as such. To each his own._

_Disclaimer: _I do not own Oliver Twist/"Oliver Twist." Charles Dickens and 'The Wonderful World of Disney' (is that ABC?) do, as well as anyone else involved.

_

* * *

_

**Solace**

The small flute's notes trilled, echoing quietly throughout their corner of the room. In the main section behind them, most of the lads were making bets on who could pick a pocket the fastest, Nancy was sitting quietly in a chair until bidden to do so much as breathe, and Fagin and Sykes were whispering in a close bunch at the table.

Dodger wasn't paying attention to anything there, though. He was here, with Oliver, listening intently to the surprisingly good music coming from the tiny boy next to him. When he accidentally hit a wrong note or blew incorrectly so as to make the note go off-key, the older didn't complain or flinch.

Instead, he merely grinned a small bit, enjoying the reminder that even this young boy, who was portrayed as perfect in nearly everything he did, was just as imperfect as he himself was. Contently relaxing against a wooden, vertical beam that extended from the ceiling to the floor where they sat, eyes closed as his hands cushioned his head, the sound of his friend's musicianship in his ear made Dodger smirk.

He had picked up the flute this very afternoon, in fact. At the time, he hadn't known why he'd taken it from the gentleman's petticoat pocket, and certainly not how the small lip of the mouthpiece to be seen from where he'd stood had caught his eye in the first place. It had been a mystery to him then.

Yet, sitting here as he was now, he understood his reason. It was seated right beside him.

_Oliver_, in general and out of it, had been his motivation. He'd been so downtrodden lately, and the older boy, while supervising the other boys in their 'trade', had heard him singing in the square once… The instrument's steal had been an uncharacteristic, risky move on his part, but he'd felt compelled to do it.

It had not been just for Oliver's sake; in a way, it had been for his, too. It had been for the sake of the only friend he'd ever had, perhaps the only one who could catalyze his redemption.

His smile finally falling at these thoughts, he opened his eyes and brought his hands from behind his head. He didn't even feel it when his hat slipped forward as he leaned back against the pole without restraint.

Is this what it had come to, then? Asking forgiveness in the form of pick pocketing trinkets for the sole of them left majorly uncorrupted?

Face scrunching as he tightly closed his eyes and clenched his fists, he was angry.

He was angry at Fagin for cunningly taking him in and teaching him to work this 'business' of his, and he was angry at Sykes for forcing Fagin to continue it, no matter that it was their entire means of survival.

He was angry at the other boys for not being like Oliver, for not being good enough to see the harm they were doing to themselves and others, and he was angry at Oliver for being so bloody _perfect_.

He was angry at himself, though, more than anything. _He _could have stopped this long ago, if he had only been smart and strong enough to refuse Fagin's offer. He would have starved or frozen eventually, but at least he wouldn't be where he was now, in this living fire pit. Of them all, however, this was the worst offense: Oliver wouldn't be here either, forced to endure this unending torture.

Suddenly, without warning or realized reason, his eyes snapped open. His fists released their tension, their prior, white flesh flushing from red to pink again, and a barely felt, inaudible gasp fell from lips.

Blankly looking straight ahead for a moment, he gathered his bearings. He was at Fagin's place, Oliver was next to him with the newly-acquired flute held tightly in his hands, but…the music was gone. _That _was why he was a part of reality again.

Peering to his left, he was met with the curiously gazing twelve-year-old, whose head was tilted to the side and visage voiced concern. His voice was gentle as he spoke, like it always was when they were together.

"Dodger?" Oliver's eyebrows furrowed almost unnoticeably; the older boy saw. A warm, tiny hand was placed on his own. "What's wrong?"

Dodger squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing the out of character lump in his throat and pushing back the tears that he knew were making the areas around his blue orbs red. What was _wrong_ with him?

Garnering his breath, he finally forced himself to open his eyes and chance a glance at Oliver. He nearly looked away.

There were tear tracks on Oliver's face, ones that still hadn't dried from several hours ago. His teeth clenched and breath was not found; _he _had brought Oliver here, and _he _had caused this chaos and misery. The self-loathing was practically emanating from him in tangible waves.

The younger boy's expression faltered even further as he silently took stock of the mental and emotional breakdown gradually shattering his friend, and the hand holding Dodger's tightened.

"Dodger, what is it?"

He had never really cared about anything before Oliver came along. So…why was he starting now? Wasn't it…

Wasn't it already too late for him?

"Dodger, are you still there? Please, say something if you are. You're scaring me." Another, ill-fated smirk came to his lips as he bowed his head. To think that his not _speaking _could scare the boy that had been kidnapped, tricked, taught to steal, and constrained into living with a band of thieves because he was unfortunate enough to know their darkest secrets was _hilarious_. At least, it would be if he wasn't so worried about the person in question.

"Oliver…" His voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, and he inwardly chastised himself. He didn't want to show this weak side to Oliver, though the younger had seen it once already. He shook his head as he lifted it, the wry grin from before continuously playing on his lips as their eyes met. "I—"

"It'll be okay, you know." Dodger couldn't stop—wouldn't stop—his mouth from dropping open. Those were the words he had been about to say.

Letting the smallest chuckle escape him, his mood lightened the slightest bit. A small, yet wide smile came to cross Oliver's features, and an additional, unsurprising amount of the weight faded.

They would be all right, somehow; _Oliver _would be. He would make sure of it.

Taking the boy's arm with his free hand, he carefully pulled him to sit between his spread legs and rest with his back against the seventeen-year-old's chest. Above everything else, Oliver could instantly feel the warmth from Dodger's body, feel his heart beating in a strong rhythm, and he sighed in utmost relief.

He was safe here. Dodger was, too.

There was something to them when they were like this, so in sync with and omniscient of the other. They loved it; they loved each other.

In seconds, Oliver was asleep. Glancing down at him, the Artful Dodger smiled. Bending down to lay a pledging kiss on the boy's mess of hair, one of his hands laying over the small one's heart with the other still encased, he, too, was asleep shortly after.

Their talk could wait. Tonight, in this moment and the ones until sunrise, they were guarded by the other. They knew that, as did everyone else, excluding Sykes; they _couldn't _let him see.

As long as they had their times like this, their dreary, heart-wrenching lives would be permitted to last another day.

They would make it; they _would_.

Nancy sneaked in softly, ducking under the slightly dipping curtain to check on them. Smiling as she took in their present positions, she knelt down to place an adoring kiss on both of their foreheads. The two smiled in their sleep, Oliver rolling onto his side and burying his face into Dodger's chest. The older's expression morphed into one of protectiveness, his arm curling around the boy's shoulders. Nancy laughed almost inaudibly; they were a strange pair, but a grand one nonetheless.

As she slipped back into the adjoining center, they were left alone.

The Artful One, the Artful Dodger, better known to some as Jack Dawkins, cared about Oliver Twist deeply. Denying that in any form would be the lowest of lows.

* * *

~Dodger needed Oliver, and Oliver needed him.~

* * *

_A/N: _Yes, well...I don't know about the ending. I actually just made it up. XD Again, despite any implications otherwise, this is solely meant as a friendship fic. Slash-interpreters are entirely welcome to do their thing, though. Thanks for reading!


End file.
